"Absolutely not, please continue," I said.
He grinned and went back to kissing me. I was completely undone, hands pulling at him, needing him closer, needing everything. He settled between my legs and looked down at me — really looked, the blue light catching his eyes, his hair, the line of his jaw — like he was taking a second to just have this. Just see me.
It was devastatingly tender in a way I wasn't prepared for — the kind of close that has nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with being completely known by someone. Every sound I made he answered. Every time I pulled him closer he went in. Like there's nowhere else either of us was supposed to be.
When it was over we laid tangled in the blankets, his arm heavy around me, my cheek on his chest, his heartbeat slowing under my ear. The blue light still moving across the ceiling. The fake candles still flickering at the edges. Neither of us talked for a while.
I pressed my face into his chest and started laughing. He did too, chest shaking under my cheek, arms pulling me closer, and I laid there in the blue light in this ridiculous setup thinking I could stay there forever.
And meaning it completely.
Chapter 22
Jamie
I spend the rest of the day in my room, staring at the ceiling.
Flat on my back, throwing a ball straight up and catching it. Over and over. The rhythm of it the only thing keeping me from actually losing my mind.
Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch.
I fucking hate him.
But do I hate him enough to let it cost me everything I’ve worked toward since I was a kid?
No. Obviously not.
I sit up.
For exactly one second I consider a different sport. I play some soccer in my free time — badly, but I play it. Maybe a C-tier rec team somewhere. Low stakes. No captain. No title.
No. I hate soccer. Fuck.
I drop back onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling some more. I love Fitch. I love hockey. I’ll keep my head down, do the work, stay under the radar, and earn my way back to captain whether Rhys Callahan exists in my life or not. That’s the plan. That’s always been the plan and I am not letting one infuriating, smug, dark-eyed —
Throw. Catch.
I need to get out of my head. I need to not be in this room.
I need to — okay. Yeah. I know what I need.
A quick, clean, no-strings, no-risk release. Get the energy out, clear my head, come back focused. It’s not complicated. It’s just maintenance. And it’s been a while. I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and grab my phone off the nightstand.
The room around me is exactly what it looks like — clean, simple, grey bedsheets on a single bed, a TV, a cabinet, everything in its place. Organized. Dependable. The room of a person who doesn’t leave things unfinished or out of order. Exactly me.
I open Grindr.
The account is old. Just my abs in the profile photo — no face, no school name, nothing that places me. The bio is blank. I’ve kept it that way intentionally, same way I keep most things about myself purposefully empty. Anonymous is the only way this works.
I set the distance to fifty miles minimum and start scrolling.
Left. Left. Left.
The overly sexual bios don’t do anything for me. I know — Grindr, of all places — but I’m not looking for a show. I’m looking for someone who gets it. Secret. Simple. In and out, no complications, no one showing up at practice on Monday. Messaging me all day. Telling other people. Confronting me at work about it.
I keep scrolling.
Then I stop.
